Contest October-November Short Story Contest Voting Thread (Votes Close December 7th)

The theme for our 40th seasonal short story contest, provided by the co-winners of last contest is "A Work of Art" brought to us by @Killer Angel.

Please read all four stories carefully before voting. You may vote for only ONE story.

The order of the stories was determined completely randomly. The order has no bearing on which pieces were submitted in what order.

If someone wants me to fix a typo or formatting error that slipped through the cracks. Please let me know by private message AND please post the entire story with all changes made. It's lot easier for me to copy and paste a new story rather than for me to dig through the text to find the two or three errant sentences.

Happy reading everyone! Let the commentary, critiques and gushing praise begin.

Spoiler: Story One, "A Critique"

A critique

Mar-Ayaxi, Indecipherable Plaque #24
Stone and time, 13.4" x 9.1"

Review by Tra'c Klalotl, for Lustrian Glyphs Weekly

A potential yet to be fulfilled

Three and a half stars (out of seven)

Many have tried to capture the word of the gods, to render it in a form that mortal eyes can behold. But what does it truly mean to transform scripture into art?

This is the question at the heart of Mar-Ayaxi's "Indecipherable Plaque" series, opening tonight at the Glyphoria Gallery in the Temple District. It's a worthy collection, with plaque 24 standing out as the most challenging and ambitious of the set.

One of the most influential members of the Hexoatl illegibilist scene of the late third millennium, Mar-Ayaxi's carvings have evolved through the centuries. The Indecipherable Plaque series covers several periods of his work, with plaque 24 demonstrating his best-known technique, in which the artist uses a hammer and chisel to render the initial design, and then allows the stone to rest undisturbed for countless eons until the patterns have faded and moss has covered much of the surface. As a final coup-de-gras, the work is then subtly stained with splatters of faded brown fluids - all that remains of warmblood adventurers who have attempted to steal the object over the centuries.

Some may call such a style derivative, but there is something to be said for the traditional approach when it comes to works containing untold cosmic power that could be unleashed should they ever be fully understood. It's only natural for the artist to reach for the collective sense of the sublime in such an oeuvre, and there is great promise in Mar-Ayaxi's understanding of the object as neither the object of objecthood nor the art-object. Through such layers of convolution, obscurity, and mystification it seems the Old Ones have blessed the hand of the artist.

Where Indecipherable Plaque #24 fails to fulfil its potential is its theory of meaning. While all deviation from the will of the Mage-Priests is a blasphemy to be avoided at all costs; and while we cannot in any way question the glorious orthodoxy of gradually approaching an understanding of the Great Plan through the long and ineffable project of eternal cogitation upon ancient and illegible masonry; yet Plaque 24 leaves this reviewer wondering - could there be something more inspiring, more challenging, more - dare I say it - original in a work in which at least some of the actual content can be understood?

I just can't decipher the answer.

Spoiler: Story Two, "The Warrior's Art

Xi-Boc emerged from the unlit spawning pools deep under the Moon Temple in the city of Hualotal along with thousands of fellow Saurus. They replenished the ranks that had been decimated by the death and disease in his cities battle with the ratmen, who had been secretly building their lair of filth underground for a decade. The city he emerged into was one of almost complete ruin and squallar. Enormous sinkholes had swallowed swathes of the city while other parts were burned almost to the ground. Every living body in the city was pressed into service in the decade-long effort to rebuild. Even the ranks of the Saurus, whose occupation is a life of constant fighting and training, were called upon to lend their strength in the clearing of rubble and rebuilding efforts. The shifting of so much stone and timber helped build the muscles and regimental coordination and discipline of the young cohorts though. After this, Xi-Boc's great battle instincts were honed with relentless and gruelling training from the battle-hardened veterans of earlier cohorts as they prepared their warriors for defence against the near constant threat of Chaos, ratmen and human plunderers.

–

At his 9th cycle of the seasons, while guarding a monument in the deep jungle the young Saurus warrior came across a peculiar thought unconnected to war or hunting. He had thought back to his home city, to the towering, ancient temples in gleaming limestone and paint he had helped to rebuild. He thought of the enormous and intricate relief carvings on the sides of buildings and rock faces. To the colourful frescoes of the gods and heroes of his people, of the complex songs and dances all dedicated to the gods and the revered Old Ones. All these things were done by the Skinks. From their hand and brain, vast treasures were created in reverence to the gods. What was it he, a Saurus could contribute to revere the gods in the same level of dedication? What is it he could offer them? Xi-Boc looked at the carved column he was guarding. The others has gone to find more ochre for their paints. The column was being restored to its former glory. He looked down at one of the paint bowls and brushes. It took but a moment to swoop his hand down to pick up the paintbrush. But then he froze. While his mind was able to guide his hand down to pick up the brush, that was the last of the logic he could call upon though. The Skinks made it look easy enough. Big swooping lines, tiny delicate details, he could do them! But he had absolutely no idea what to do with the brush. None. Some tiny thought came to him though. He looked down at his hands. With one, he painted the palm of the other. He then pressed this hand into the stony surface of the column. It left a perfect imprint of his clawed hand. Finally, he washed his hand in a bucket of water the Skinks had been using the clean their brushes. Having made his small contribution, he then took up his station once more, standing motionless and listening out for the return of the Skinks. When they finally returned, one looked at the column when it had been marked, then at the Saurus standing guard, then back again. He took out the paintbrush and then painter over the hand print, setting up a base coat to paint the more intricate marking onto. Xi-Boc showed absolutely no emotions but inside he felt something wither a little.

–

In the war against the dark elves in the 31st year of his existence he demonstrated a level of cunning and leadership on the battlefield well above those of his cohort. He slew two dozen of the enemy personally with spear and shield. And when his unit's champion fell he picked up his mantle and lead his unit to rout the enemy, wiping them out as they were chased down. For this he was awarded the position of Champion and given that unit to command.

–

The first time Xi-Boc felt a true sense of sadness was in his 406th cycle of the seasons, when he was ordered to turn his spear against fellow Saurian warriors. A disagreement between powerful Slann lords over the interpretation of sacred omens had spilled over from argument to the battlefield. He fought and killed unquestionably and to his upmost ability, his loyalty to his Slann Lord was unshakeable but he felt a great sense of loss as he ruthlessly spilled cold blood. In a few short weeks, hundreds of reptilian bodies lay strewn in swamps and jungle clearings between the two sides before the matter could be resolved. Xi-Boc refused any awards for his service during this time, considering it one of the most dishonerable moments in his life up to that point.

–

In year 582 of his existence the celebrated Scar-Veteran Sythia took Xi-Boc, now a battle-hardened warrior up Nohoch, the greatest mountain on The Spine of Sotek and taught him to meditate on his victories. Resisting the bitter cold and biting winds, he stood motionless, concentrating on all the battles he had won, and how they had been won. They spent a day up there before descending into the clinging humidity of the Lustrian jungle. After that Sythia took him to the deepest caves in Lustria, under the terrible ruins of a city that had fallen before even some of the Slann could remember. Down there, in the infinite darkness, in the damp, cold clutches of the earth Sythia taught Xi-Boc how to meditate on his defeats. Every scar, every missed blow, every time his nerves had been shaken. And there they remained for two days. For a victory is temporary, but a failure can be permanent. He was instructed to think upon those he had saw fall in battle and then to the ruins of the city high above them.

On emerging from the tunnels on the second day Sythia lead Xi-Boc to a clearing amongst the jungle-choked ruins. Even though the paving was cracked and uneven, no tall trees penetrated the wide open plaza. Sythia walked into the centre, dropping his ceremonial armour and weapon.

"This is the plaza of bones. It is where future war leaders have, for a thousand years fought and spilled their blood to prove their strength. Would you honour me in combat on these sacred grounds?" he asked.

Xi-Boc dropped his own weapon and rushed the Scar-Veteran. They fought until sunset, the golden light of the fading sun glistened off their bloodied bodies as they struggled until finally, exhausted, Sythia got the upper hand, knocking Xi-Boc to the floor and putting his jaw around his throat. He roared in defeat. Sythia helped him up.

"You are a mighty warrior! You will make an excellent leader one day. But you are still young and have much to learn. Meditate on this." he said.

–

Xi-Boc was presented with the Crest Of Snakes by Rah'huk the Old Blood after the battle of Hualotal where he had personally slain three scores of daemons. He had been ordered to take a hill and had held it in the face of a relenting onslaught, refusing to back down. Because of this he was given the honorific 'Tlazimund', Stubborn, along with his new rank as Scar Veteran. The celebrations were bitter-sweet however. The previous wearer of the Crest Of Serpents was Sythia who had fallen in the battle. Xi-Boc had personally lead a small detachment out into the stinking morasses of the battlefield to retrieve his body so that he could be honoured in death.

–

It was in his 627th year that black sun rose over the horizon and hung over the sky for a week. The daemons of Chaos crawled out of every fissure and crack in the landscape to reign terror and bloodshed on the holy continent of Lustria. Holding them back had been an almost impossible task. The battle was relentless with no time to sleep and almost no time regroup after each charge. The casualty rate was so high the rivers ran with blood and the only place to stand was on the bodies of the fallen. The relentless surge of Chaos was unrelenting but, eventually the dark tide was turned back as the black sun sank for the last time. Half of Xi-Boc's entire cohort was wiped out in this week.

–

Scar-Veteran Xi-Boc lead his first army on his 761th year, to put down a growing infestation of orcs near Tarantula Coast. His was not the only army sent to dispatch the scourge and this was a fortunate thing because the numbers turned out to be well beyond any estimate. Many reinforcements were sent for and after it seemed an area was clear, yet more of the hideous creatures would emerge from the very earth itself to wreck havoc on the armies and surrounding areas. It took nearly a decade of constant war to put down the beasts for good. Xi-Boc was reminded of the week of the Black Sun almost a century and a half ago. At least they were able to rest between battles here. He returned with honour to his home in Hualotal and was appointed the rank of Old-Blood for the part he played in leading his army to a brutal victory against the hated aggressors.

–

Xi-Boc Tlazimund was gifted a mighty gold ornament to be worn on his crest when he reached the venerable age of 800. He was honoured with a march through this city and a great sacrifice of Skaven prisoners he'd help capture. Their presence in the jungle had been growing. The celebrations mostly passed him by as he considered their threat and how to counter it. As the heart of a particularly large specimen of ratmen was offered to him he spared a thought to consider just how many Saurus had made it to his age and all those comrades that were no longer by his side. He consumed the morsel and gave his thanks to the gods for allowing him to serve them this long.

While the celebrations continued into the night, Xi-Boc contemplated in silence in his chamber, ignoring the sound of fireworks. Later on he would request that his scholar, a Skink called Beq'tal, fetch and read him reports from battles long past during times the ratmen numbers were increasing. A week later he reported his findings to his Slann master and went about making preparations for a future war.

It was only eight years later that his suspicions were proven correct. A huge Skaven lair was discovered beneath the ruins of a nearby city. They had been working on some dark technology. Xi-Boc did not understand it but knew it must be destroyed. Once again he lead a force, a massive one this time with numerous Scar-Veterans leading their own armies under him. The war carried on for the best part of three years with losses in the tens of thousands. He himself almost lost his life in a massive explosion of Warp Stone energy. After gaining victory he fell ill with a fever, a pestilence left as a parting gift before the last of them were crushed. His sickness lasted two agonising years, his body and mind torn apart by burning, unending pain. Many others who had survived the war did not survive the plague but one day during the wet season of his second year of infirmary, the fever broke. He arose from the slab that may well have been his deathbed and wandered in the pouring rain for three days, taking in every sensation that had been denied to him by his sickness.

–

One evening, while sat meditating in his chamber, a thought arose in his mind that he had not considered for almost eight hundred years. It concerned the matter of art and its use in honouring the gods. What is it a Saurus could possibly contribute? This time he looked back on the question from the perspective of nearly eight centuries of experience.

Over all that time he had given himself, his mind and his body to the craft, to the very art of war. Both in it's direct conduct through facing the enemy with spear and claw but also through the direction of troops, the training of younger warriors and the advice that was drawn on again and again by his Slann master. The work of art he could honour the gods with was himself and his continued service. He allowed himself a small chuckle of satisfaction before returning to his meditation.

The doors to his chamber were opened and his Skink scholar Beq'tal entered. "Lord Xi-Boc, the Starmaster has need of your service"

Spoiler: Story Three, "The Never-Histories"

The Never-Histories​

Tobias Greymantle huffed, his breath misting as he raised his gloved hands to his mouth and blew, trying to warm himself.

Shyish was a cold realm. The chill of death seeped into his bones, turning his blood to ice. That was how it felt at any rate.

He glared enviously at the back of the Stormcast leading their small group of scholars. She didn’t seem to react to death’s chill; the lightning in her veins no doubt warmed her in a way no mortal could ever experience.

Or the Stormcast was simply very good at hiding discomfort. But Tobias didn't want to consider that, as it would deprive him of someone to glower at.

He missed the warmth of Emberfall's libraries, the scent of aged parchment—comforts far removed from Shyish's relentless chill.

Ten scholars, all from different cities and races: three Aelves, two Duardin, four humans including Tobias, and a Seraphon—a skink, if Tobias had his lore right.

The skink didn’t glow with the light of Azyr, so he/she/it was one of the kind that mingled with mortals. Like the rest of the scholars, the skink wore a thick coat to ward off Shyish’s unnatural coldness.

One of the Duardin grunted. 'How long ’til we get to our...' He trailed off, searching for the appropriate word. 'Our mysterious destination?'

The Stormcast snorted, misted breath seeping from her war mask. 'Almost there. Just over this next hill.'

*****

Tobias’s inclusion in the party of scholars had come abruptly. He had been teaching at the University of Emberfall, a position of great pride—Emberfall being renowned for its culture and scholars, the city where knowledge flowed as freely as its rivers.

He taught of ancient civilizations lost to the Age of Chaos. In his youth, he had been an explorer, seeking ruins and relics, bringing back treasures from lost histories to aid scholars. Ancient history was his passion; he desired nothing more than to unearth and learn that lost lore.

Eventually, age meant Tobias had to put aside tomb raiding and become one of those scholars himself. From there, he began teaching what he learned.

After one class, he had retired to his office to find a Stormcast Eternal looming over his desk.

'Tobias Greymantle? We need you to come with us.'

It hadn’t been a request.

*****

Their destination was almost anticlimactic. They had ascended the promised last hill and found... a small stone structure. In Shyish, it would be easy to dismiss it as a simple mausoleum. Except, no ordinary mausoleum would have a dozen Saurus standing guard. They stood so still one could mistake them for gargoyles. In his early days, Tobias might have made that mistake. It had only taken upsetting a contingent of Saurus sentries the once to learn how to recognize them.

But...

'Saurus temple guardians?' he asked aloud, noting the distinct differences from the more common warriors.

He ignored the surprised murmurs of his colleagues and turned to the leading Stormcast.

'I am not going to be party to upsetting the Seraphon if they have deemed this a protected site.'

Never again will I make that mistake. Not at my age.

The Stormcast chuckled. 'Do not worry. The protection of this site is a joint venture. We have permission to be here.'

'And what is this site that is so important the Seraphon would share protection of?' one of the Aelves asked, voice hollow with uncertainty. 'And what is our purpose here?'

'Answers will be given inside.'

It was a complete non-answer, one that didn’t quell the curiosity or unease of the scholars. Only the skink didn’t react outwardly, its eyes taking in the Saurus with a detached gaze.

*****

Contrary to appearances, this was no mausoleum. Beyond the thick stone door, a slope led underground, arcane torches lighting the passage.

Down, down, down. They walked for half an hour. Fortunately, the chill of the outside didn't pierce into this passage, and the torches provided enough warmth that Tobias's old bones ceased to feel like blocks of ice.

Another set of stone doors, pushed open by two Saurus guardians. And on the other side...

Tobias felt the breath leave his body. It was a vast chamber, larger than his eyes could take in. Eldritch runes glimmered on the ceiling, providing light comparable to daylight and ideal warmth.

But what really captured his attention were the walls: vast mosaics, tapestries, and paintings, all depicting images. Little was left to the imagination.

In one, the scene of some nameless battle with Chaos, though not fought by Stormcast Eternals, but by men akin to the Freeguilds. Another held a troop of gallant knights who had a presence felt even through the mosaic.

'What is this place?' a Duardin asked, eyes wide as he gazed upon an image of a Dawi scowling at a massive tome.

The Stormcast leader removed her helmet, placing it upon a table brought in from outside. She looked amused.

'We have taken to calling it the Sanctum of Divergent Histories. We do not know how this place came to be here, nor do our Seraphon allies,' she said, nodding toward one of the statuesque Saurus.

'The Sanctum of Divergent Histories?' an Aelf asked.

The Stormcast nodded and motioned toward the images. 'What little we have learned is that each of these images represents ancient history. World-That-Was history.'

Tobias felt his breath catch. If that was true, this was the greatest treasure a historian could uncover. History that predated the Realms?

'However, we have noted... contradictions,' the Stormcast added.

'Such as?' a Duardin asked.

Surprisingly, the skink answered while shedding its heavy coat. 'This one is certain that Seraphon did not wear such armour, even in the World-That-Was.' The skink's voice was strange, pitch fluctuating—a low rasp one moment, a high-pitched squeak the next.

When Tobias turned to look, it pointed at a tapestry showing numerous Saurus, all wearing colourful armour with small banners on their backs. Each carried, instead of the normal club, a long thin weapon with bronze and obsidian blades along one side.

The Stormcast nodded, her eyes briefly resting on that tapestry. 'Professor Emyh’rah is correct. We've asked every Seraphon constellation on speaking terms with us about that image. While some were inconclusive due to their Slann not being available, those that were agreed that the Seraphon's predecessors never adopted that style. Though one Slann did inform us of a human nation called Nippon that did.'

The skink's head tilted. 'Is very peculiar.'

'Are there any other images that prove not all of these are part of the same history?' Tobias asked. 'It's possible that—and I mean no offence to the Slann when I say this,' he added to the skink, who was apparently called Emyh’rah, 'the Slann simply didn't know of an outlier constellation.'

Emyh’rah shrugged nonchalantly, apparently not taking offence.

'There is a tapestry further back, another involving Seraphon, but making use of...' The Stormcast hesitated. 'I'd say they were steam tanks, but the design was more Kharadron in nature, yet not. And they were using guns of no design I can name. Similar designs were used in yet another image, but by humans... and by Chaos.'

The scholars shared looks. Eventually, one of the human scholars spoke. 'Why are we here?'

'Each of you is an expert in histories and mythology, and related fields. We want you to catalogue and learn, to uncover our history, the history of our origins.'

'But you've just made it clear that not all tell the history as it truly was, that there are contradictions.'

'Another part of your task: work out how these divergences could have come to be, why they did not happen. That's the mythology part of your expertise.'

Tobias breathed in, gazing around the vast, near-endless hall and the many scenes. The air slowly released from his lungs, and his lips arched into an excited grin.

Even if this wasn't history from the Realms since Sigmar made them, this was almost something even better. History from the world the very gods had once walked upon, before their ascension.

This was history that, aside from a few distant figures, there was no way to uncover. So what if there were a few falsehoods—it was as the Stormcast captain had said, no different from finding myths of long-gone cultures and discerning truth from legend.

*****

The scholars chose to work in pairs, a historian with a mythographer. Tobias found himself partnered with the skink, Emyh’rah. She—yes, she had been deemed female because humans kept mispronouncing her name as Elmyra, a decidedly female name, and she didn't care either way—had attended the College of Aldergrove, studied mythology to better understand warmbloods, and found she had a knack for it.

They wandered the sanctum, at first simply taking in the tapestries, mosaics, and paintings as one would in a museum. Some scenes were baffling, like images of Orruks, Chaos, undead, and humans not fighting but playing a sport... others were inspiring, such as a man, perhaps a general, holding aloft the legendary warhammer Ghal Maraz while riding an impressive griffon.

There were strange images, like a human with gold rings in his eyes leading a Seraphon temple host. Some were surprisingly cute, like an infant Aelf hugging a Kroxigor with a happy smile. Others were fear-inducing, like scenes from the last days of the World-That-Was.

Some were easy to tell as being divergent from the same timeline. Others required closer examination.

Some were so starkly different that Tobias felt they had to be from a different world entirely.

And then some tapestries were just hilarious.

Elmyra’s (easier to say, and she didn't protest) eyes darted around, pupils narrowed—a sign of excitement among skinks, Tobias recalled. After a moment, she paused abruptly, then doubled over, a strange gasping wheezing sound escaping her mouth. Tobias panicked at first, uncertain what was happening. His limited experience with Seraphon didn't help; he'd never heard such a sound from one of the lizardkin.

Eventually, he realised it was laughter. Gut-bursting laughter, the kind that, from a human, would be howling. And it didn't take a genius to see what had caused her reaction, because when Tobias gazed upon the painting, he had the exact same response.

'Never...' he managed between chortles as the laughter subsided. 'Never in all my years did I think to imagine.'

'The great enemy,' Elmyra rasped, nodding in agreement with what he hadn't yet spoken.

Tobias lifted his eyes, gazed upon the picture again.

'I sincerely wish this was part of the histories as happened in our timeline,' he grinned.

The painting was glorious. How else could it be described?

For it depicted a near-black-hued Orruk, possibly an Ironjaw, and the greatest enemy of Order alive: Archaon the Everchosen. The two were clearly in combat.

That in itself wasn't the source of amusement. Nor was it that Archaon was clearly losing. It was the reason he was losing.

Never in all his years had Tobias believed he would witness the image of an Orruk kicking Archaon the Everchosen in the groin.

That image alone made the entire trip worth every second.

After a moment, Tobias leaned closer to Elmyra. 'Think we can convince the Stormcast and the Saurus guardians to let some artists in to make copies?'

The skink rasped out another laugh.

Tobias looked around the vast chamber, his gaze sweeping over countless tapestries yet to be explored. 'Imagine the knowledge we could uncover here. Not just about our past, but about the very nature of time and fate.'

Elmyra tilted her head thoughtfully. 'Many stories needing unravelling, myths deciphering.'

He smiled warmly at his new colleague. 'Then we'd best get started. After all, history won't study itself.'

Together, they delved deeper into the Sanctum, each step taking them further into a labyrinth of forgotten lore and untold stories. The air was thick with whispers of the past, and Tobias felt a renewed vigour coursing through his veins.

Spoiler: Story Four, "Like Father Like Son"

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON​

The precision awl chiseled away the surface of the cold iron. Slowly, methodically.

Sweat stung Drazhoath Blakhorn’s eyes, and his arms ached. It didn’t matter.

The chisel fashioned the intricate rune of the “Holder of Treasures,” the thirty-seventh of the sixty-six names of the Father of Darkness. The next rune would bear the name of “He who kills with fire” A series of sixty-six runes, repeated sixty-six times… Drazhoath was now working on the bands that would surround the enormous breastplate, a five-meter-wide plate of steel, heated in lava, quenched in blood and tempered by sacred fires, beaten and shaped into the image of the Bull of Hashut.

With a few final, gentle strokes of the chisel, the Daemonsmith completed the rune, blowing on it to remove the metal dust from the grooves. He then took out his ritual dagger and made an incision in his thumb.

“My blood is not only mine, my blood belongs to Hashut, the One who owns everything and gives nothing away”

Drazhoath placed his thumb on the rune. The metal drank the drops of blood greedily, while the rune glowed.

“Keep this blood, and never release it. Be greedy as our Lord, I am You and You are me.”

The chaos dwarf watched his work with satisfaction, as the regenerative spells activated to close the superficial wound. He still had much to do, but his concentration was broken by the sound of the main door opening.

Before Drazhoath could see him, he heard him. He heard the clatter of metal on stone, the chugging of pistons, and the hum of well-oiled mechanisms. Even his two most trusted Kd’aii Fireborn dimmed the glow of their flames and stood back in deference and respect.

High above the balcony loomed the towering figure of Ghazkorr, the supreme Sorcerer-Prophet, lord of the city of Zhar-Marduk.

Like a centaur, Ghazkorr’s torso rose above the massive body of a mechanical bull, which enclosed the sorcerer’s legs and pelvis. Like them all, a victim of the corruption of chaos magic, Ghazkorr’s legs and manhood had long since turned to stone. Drazhoath wondered if, beneath the rich and elegant robes, the stone had already reached past his navel, or higher.

It certainly hadn’t reached his arms yet, nor his face, where two fierce eyes shone. Eyes that looked with displeasure at Drazhoath’s work, the chaos of the forge-workshop where disorder had been deliberately created and very little of the actual work was visible.

The eyes rested on Drazhoath again.

“When will it be finished?”

“When I will have completed it.”

Ghazkorr’s gloved fist crashed into the stone parapet.

“Be very careful, boy. Being my firstborn won’t save you from the punishment for negligence, and it certainly doesn’t give you the luxury of insolence. How long did it take for your tongue to grow back last time? Two months? Give me an answer.”

“I… I’m afraid I’ve gone into too much details. But I’m making up for lost time.”

“Hurry up, I need this Destroyer. I’ll give you another week… or you’ll find out the price of my disappointment.”

Ghazgorr left, creaking and dissatisfied. Drazhoath could hear the typical crack of the broken bone, as his father's scepter struck the skull of one of the hobgoblin servants who ceremoniously was holding the gate open for him.

“I don’t have much time left. In a week, whether I like it or not, my father will realize my deception.”

Drazhoath took a deep swig of the alchemical liquor hanging from his belt. A renewed energy spread through his body, the tiredness vanished in a few seconds.

“another night of work…”.

_______________________________________________


Three further days of non-stop work had yielded their results. Despite the unavoidable deadline, Drazhoath had still been methodical. No step was to be skipped, haste was not to detract from beauty. His work could not be less than perfection.

A new load of finished pieces was taken and carried toward the inner furnaces. The hobgoblin slaves pushing the carts were not stupid… they had eyes and ears, and they knew full well that Drazhoath was building something far beyond the orders of the sorcerer-prophet.

But Drazhoath had not needed to threaten them. They were aware that betraying him would mean a horrible death for them… his father was not the type to forgive a slave who goes behind his Sorcerer’s back, even if he brought useful news: the only place for an unreliable slave is the furnace.

The internal foundry was an immense room, heated to the limit of bearability by the pools of boiling lava and filled by the dark, reddish light of the enormous votive braziers; hanging from the metal frames towered an enormous metal structure, shaped like a sort of armor divided into pieces, to be assembled around something gigantic.

Each piece was engraved with sacred scenes… one greave showed a volcano with streams of lava spreading out to devour a village. The other greave depicted a lammasu flying between snow-capped peaks. A pauldron showed the Father of Darkness seated on a throne, atop a mountain of gold and precious objects. Each carving was surrounded by sacred runes that pulsed with silent power.

Drazhoath had been to the temples of Zharr-Naggrund, had seen the works of art erected in honor of Hashut, and knew that his work could be displayed in the central temple. It was just a matter of assembling the latest pieces as they were produced, and of course hoping that the couriers who had brought news of the main piece were right, and that it would arrive in time…

_______________________________________________


Another two days had passed, when the Overseer finally entered the forge.

“My Lord, Skaven envoys have arrived at the underground passages. I have made sure that no word of their presence has leaked outside the secure channels… but the caves have ears.”

“So we’ll have to hurry. Have your manpower, your winches, and your wagons ready. And prepare the sacrificial slaves.”

Drazhoath journeyed deep into the underground tunnels of Zhar-Marduk, escorted by his faithful Harridans, the warrior widows. Now he knew the real race against time had begun.

In one of the outlying caves, the rat-men delegation was waiting for him, nervously sniffing the air. Drazhoath knew that many of them were hidden, but then he also had his own countermeasures in case of betrayal.

“Let’s not waste time. Do you have it? Is it intact? Did you manage to preserve it without it deteriorating?”

A particularly evil-looking skaven, adorned with the icons symbolizing their clan and their horned god, stepped forward.

“Ah yes, yes yes.. the body-corpse is here, my excellent buyer-partner. Good-excellent condition, but very difficult-complicated, long journey from Lustria, long-long. Large-bulky corpse. Dead slaves, dead warriors… many costs-expenses…”

Drazhoath muttered a few words in the daemonic tongue, waving a hand absentmindedly. A chasm opened in the floor and streams of boiling lava engulfed half a dozen of the skaven underlings. The stench of burning fur filled the air, along with the screams.

“Let’s cut the formalities short. You were going to ask me an obscene premium and I would have told you it was too high, we would have threatened each other over the price, and you would probably have told me the trick you have in store for destroying the ‘corpse-body’. I cut the procedure short. Tell me the true final price.”

The skaven licked his lips, chuckling, and gestured reassuringly to the hidden figures in the darkness.

“eheheh… clever-cheeky, yeah? The surcharge is 50%”

“mh. Maybe it can be done, but beforehand I want to see the body. Show me the Dread Saurian.”

_______________________________________________


Drazhoath was standing in the large entrance of the forge, satisfied. He had managed to complete his work and now it was only a matter of waiting.

Beneath his large robe he had donned his Hellshard armor, and he had driven all the dwarfs away. Even the Harridans were not at his side, as in this particular circumstance he doubted their loyalty… he had kept only the K’daii fireborn with him.

He did not have to wait for long.

The gate was not opened by the slaves this time. A dull roar preceded a tremendous crash, and the massive stone and metal doors were torn from their hinges. Behind them, a Taur’ruk held a massive two-handed warhammer, which had proven more than adequate for the task.

The giant bull-centaur, chief guardian of the temple of Hashut, stepped aside, allowing Ghazkorr and his personal guard of infernal ironsworn to pass. The dwarf warriors’ expressions were masked by the closed visors of their helmets, but the sorcerer-prophet’s face was one of rage.


“A QUARTER OF THE TREASURE IS GONE! A QUARTER OF MY TREASURE! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!?” I SWEAR I WILL MAKE YOU BEG TO DIE!”

“I did.”

“OF COURSE YOU DID, YOU DAMNED IDIOT!”

Ghazgorr raised his scepter, ready to strike.

“I have completed the K’daii Destroyer. It came at a bit of a cost.”

For a moment, Ghazgorr was taken aback by the answer, and stood comically still with his scepter raised in mid-air.

“Do you want to see it?” Drazhoath said, as he allowed himself a smile. Behind him, the darkness lit up.



The Dread Saurian's body was covered in armor, inscribed with runes of chaos magic that had begun to glow a blinding red. The powerful clawed legs were reinforced by armored bracers with incandescent blades, the breastplate and gorget protected the reptile's entire torso, leaving only the toothy mouth free, while the skullcap was protected by a helmet that left the slits of the eyes open.

Hellfires burned inside the creature, turning its jaws and pupils red without consuming its body, preserved by the protective runes. Ghazgorr backed away, fearful, probably without even realizing it.

“What is that thing?”

“Do you like it? It’s almost twice the size of a Destroyer, I had it flown in from Lustria, I believe it’s the largest predator known. A worthy host for a greater fire daemon. A construct worthy of Hashut.”

“You’re a fool… I needed a Destroyer, not this… thing”

Drazhoath could no longer contain himself. A strange euphoria and excitement roared through his veins, his heart pounding, exhilarated by the bond with the chained elemental daemon.

“SHUT UP! You are weak, father… the stone is taking your body and you are afraid. You fear the moment when you will become a statue exposed on the road to Zharr-Naggrund, alongside the past Sorcerers. You fear what the magic of chaos brings… that is why you needed me to create a Destroyer, because you knew that the magic required to bring it to life would give your chest to the stone… COWARD! The stone is the medal we are awarded for knowing how to use the gifts of Hashut. And I embrace them WITH JOY!”

Drazhoath stomped his foot on the floor. Even through the sole, the dull thud of stone on stone was unmistakable. The confused Tarur’ruk backed away, and only the Ironsworn stood guard around their Lord.

Ghazgorr tried to compose himself.

“You are raving. I am the Sorcerer-Prophet of this city. You are my son. By the laws of Dawi-Zarr you owe me doubly. Kneel, now.”

Drazhoath shook his head.

“Hashut is my father, not you. It is time for this city to have a Sorcerer-Prophet able to remind the world that all the land belongs to Hashut… it is time for you to die.”

The Dread K’daii roared and charged.

 

Horray!


(err... why the tag "discussion"?)

 

It hardly ever happens, but I made a mistake.

 

After a quick read through all of them, i can only say... wow.

This contest is golden.

 

I gave my vote, soon i will try to post some review